Who’s Counting?

He only wants to take in
as much positivity as he possibly can.
Sit down and savour the blessings
that make him a happy man.
But he doesn’t know where he’ll sleep tonight
or when he’ll get his next meal.
How much good do you need to do, I wonder,
if someone’s counting,
if karma is real?

What is the price of having a home or going on vacation,
and why is it so much higher for people like him,
unlucky enough to be born with all the wrong qualifications,
and only one choice:
Sink or swim?

He heats up leftover food given to him by a stranger,
over an illegal fire he started to keep warm,
grateful for the shepherd’s pie propped into a can
so he could,
for a little longer, weather the storm.

On a harsh winter morning,
the canals freeze over,
and sometimes,
beautiful, talented people do, too.
The sun stops rising for them,
a star disappears,
just because the points they stacked up and sent in to
a corrupt, unjust system
weren’t enough to fill the void
between the abandoned and the lost.

And I wonder,
if someone’s counting,
if karma is real,
how much does a life cost?

Inner Child

Hello, little girl.
It’s been quite a while
since I last saw you
and that crooked smile.

Where did you wander off to?

Were you in hiding,
or did you get lost?
Did something scare you?
Were you double crossed?

Is it my fault you vanished?

Did I push too hard
and too far away?
If I’d listened more,
would you have stayed?

…Or did I simply forget?

Were you always there,
waiting quietly,
wanting to come home —
or to be set free?

Is it too late to forgive?

Can we start again,
another good try?
Can we still be friends,
us both: you and I?

I should’ve realised sooner.

I miss you, sweet girl;
but hey, I’m here now.
I’m sorry I failed.
Will you show me how?

The Visitors

It is night time,
but the florescent light from the outside world
creeps in through the cracks,
illuminating the mattresses purring on the floor.
The sound of snoring fills the air,
like a symphony,
punctuated with notes of flatulence.

Haha. Farts.
I chuckle to myself.

The clock says it’s five in the morning,
which means there’s still an hour to go
before I start making the coffee,
refilling the tea,
handing out the breakfast packs we made the night before:
Twenty two little bags of two sandwiches each;
One with a slice of chicken, the other cheese.
Today, Ali asked for the vegetarian option,
John wants just the meat. No butter.

Seven o’clock:
I flip the switch, and the overhead lights flicker on.
The room shifts and moans awake.
One by one, they make their way to the freshly brewed coffee.
“Good morning.”
“Not yet.”
Some of us are not morning people.

Half past seven:
We do a round to gently wake up whoever was lucky enough
to have been left undisturbed by the lights.
There are thirty more minutes before they have to leave,
one hour before I can sleepily bike
through the empty streets of Amsterdam on a Saturday morning,
to the place I call “home”,
where I will crawl into bed.

“15 more minutes.”
There are still a few unclaimed sandwiches,
so now they are free for all who could use some extra.
I hand over the discarded loaf ends to the one who calls me “sister”.
He seems grateful he can spend some time with the birds today.

“5 more minutes.”
I collect the rogue glasses that didn’t make it back to the bar,
throw the remaining drink and cigarette butts in the bin,
give them a rinse in the sink,
start the dishwasher.
Somebody opens the door,
and the cold air from another winter morning rushes in.

With everything they own on their backs,
the visitors step into the sunless, sometimes unforgiving day,
thanking us for our help,
as we close the door behind them,
wondering if they will be okay.

Becoming a Woman

a girl,
bright-eyed and keen,
finding her footing,
barely fourteen.

trying her best
to grow up and be seen.

befriends a man,
who should have known better
than to give and to take
much more than love letters.

then to ignore the fact that she was
not quite ready.
to disregard her not knowing,
her trembling, her unsteady.

than to not care
that she was too young

for 20-something-year-old hands,
greedy and selfish,
forceful and crude.

for what happened when
her “no”s were
rejected,
ignored,
and quickly subdued.

for carrying the blame
all on her own,
and not telling a soul,
and staying
too long.

for life-long trauma,
and trust issues and shame,
and believing too easily that
this was her name.
that this made her ugly,
and worthless,
and less-than.

for breaking down at nearly-30,
half a world away.

because of the same
stupid
fucking
man.

Almost Good

Good things, good things.

“Wait.”
They say,
“Be patient.”
Good things come to those who wait.

But how long do I wait before it’s foolish?
delusional?
not. gonna. happen?

Who makes the rules?
Who says “Enough!

Stop.

This person has had enough.
Stop with the torture
before the bad things outweigh the good…
And waiting on a promise of something better maybe
is too much
or too little”?

What if the good things are not what I want after all?

What if I’m scared
to find out that I don’t actually want what I thought I wanted
and I don’t know what I want
and I don’t know that I don’t know
or what I want.

What if that’s all I am:
An almost,
a nearly,
a not-quite-there,

a half-fulfilled reminder of something that could have been so great!

What if this is everything?

Is that okay?

The Smallest Place on Earth

Palm trees shade our eyes and silence our tired voices,
protect our sweaty hands from the heat that surrounds us
in this little piece of paradise where no poverty taints our streets,
where all signs of despair are swept swiftly beneath the sheets,
hidden behind the golden domes that dominate our silky skies,
and our fleeting, beaten, hushed, long-forgotten “Why?”s.

Holy men keep their fists firm and, god willing, their pets tightly leashed;
pilgrims parading with an obscene sense of purpose
when they curse us and preach,
when they let no stray display of ankle, knee, thigh walk by without notice,
without crude, self-righteous focus.

Twisted jungle makes this humble abode a throbbing, green heart,
but the only seeds that bear fruit are the ones that end and start
with “Yes, sir,” and “Of course, sir.” and “Anything you say, sir.”

Tales of our past are buried under brush,
burned away to join last year’s long list of pollution;
old banana leaves, debauchery and an attempted revolution.
We cough and wheeze trying to breathe the remaining ill-willed fumes,
stinging our throats and scorching our lungs,
without objecting, without knowing how to,
mistaking the smoke for someone else’s fault
and someone else’s issue.

“Not everyone is as lucky as us.”

Like an overused mantra, our fortune echoes from the outside in,
and our greedy faces, stuffed with pacification,
beam at all of the unexpected treasures before them,
given to us by an untouchable, faceless man,
for only a small fee:
Freedom could never be fully appreciated, anyway;
who needs choice with comforts like these?
He selflessly tells us what to think, and we comply,
distracted by the handsome houses at our feet — but no questions, please!

We don’t take kindly to nosy mouths,
but do as you’re told, believe in it completely, and all of your dreams will unfold.
Just don’t let your mind wander too far;
and heaven forbid,
don’t confuse liberty for being able to say “No.”

Questions for a Lover

How do your eyes smile that way, like they behold a secret glory?
They seem to know something I don’t, a precious forbidden story.

Where does your flaring fire come from, the one that’s keeping you alive?
The flames that wake you up each day as if to just be is to thrive.

What happens when the lights go out? Do you sit in the darkness, too?
Or do you find the nooks where no one looks and count gems awaiting you?

When does the gold cease to glitter, if you’re holding it all the time?
Carrying it like it’s weightless, unaware of the filth and grime.

Who is it that your thoughts return to, when it gets bitter at night?
When flowers hide away their petals and the wind howls out in spite;
when words leaving your lips fail to speak ev’rything you mean to say,
and your sole comfort is silence as the end nears a long, hard day.

Why are you still here standing, in a world destined to let you down?
How do your eyes smile that way, even though mine only seem to frown?

Train of Thought

Water trickles down
the little grooves in the roof.
It makes a lovely sound like a million waterfalls
lulling me to sleep and
begging me to watch the world play outside.

The rain keeps a steady beat, carelessly
guides the drums of my racing heart
like a call for battle
in a war I’m the only one fighting.

Drip drop, it goes. Ba dum ba dum, I reply.
Drip drop, ba dum ba dum.

I close my eyes and look for your face everywhere I go,
sometimes I find it
but then you’re gone before I can open them again
and I’m forced to remember

you
are
not
here.

All the while, this silly thing threatening to burst open my chest
won’t let me forget you.
It keeps me alive,
but makes the act of living a chore.

And the rain only amplifies the emptiness,
a cruel reminder of what is missing,
of the gaping hole waiting to be refilled,
of the sound my heart makes when it pounds and pounds
and all it gets in return is its own echo.

That is when I feel the most alone.

That is when I wish with all my might that I were holding you in my arms
instead of just wishing for it.

But the water continues to fall,
the rain continues to pour,
and I pray there will be sunshine tomorrow.

Want & Pain

I wanted so badly to pull you close
and kiss you

hard on the mouth.

I wanted everything to be okay
and for it to just

stop hurting
so
goddamn
much.
Nobody knew

how broken up I was inside
and how exhausting it was

to keep all of the little pieces
together
all
the fucking
time. But

I wanted to press your body
against mine.
I wanted to sink
into those brown eyes that always seem to catch me

off guard.
I wanted it to mean something

and that
was the most painful.

The Leaf Outside My Window

Sally looked outside of her bedroom window and stared at the trees shivering in the cold. Autumn was here and it threatened to steal all of the leaves from their branches. Watching one of the few leaves still clinging onto life as it danced in the breeze, Sally thought about how sad it was that no matter how hard that leaf tried to stay on that branch, it would inevitably fall to the ground like so many had before it. As if that wasn’t enough, she thought about how sad it was that all the leaves that once kept this tree warm and beautiful would simply be left on the ground, waiting to be trampled on by unsuspecting humans and then forgotten about as they rot on the ground, returning to the earth and completing the vicious cycle of life.

Hours merged into days and those days into months, Autumn had come and gone and now, it was Winter’s turn. As the snow fell and began to cover everything in a beautiful, purifying, white blanket, Sally looked out of her window like she had so many days ago, and focusing on what seemed to be a naked branch, she spotted a leaf – a leaf that, despite the wind and the snow and the hail and the rain, had managed to stay with that branch and perhaps, make that tree feel a little bit less lonely than it would have. Sally smiled as she thought about how silly she had been to think that everything was destined for destruction and that the world was full of emptiness and too many things that come to an end. Sally thought about how wonderful it was that there was still hope in the world, and she knew that that was something to be happy about.